


Birthday Surprises

by AmeliaFriend



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaFriend/pseuds/AmeliaFriend
Summary: And other things HG was hoping would not happen on his birthday.Lenore may not have gotten the message.A surprise birthday present of my own for the wonderful @elphabaintheTARDIS!!!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElphabaInTheTARDIS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElphabaInTheTARDIS/gifts).



It’s light when he wakes up, sunlight streaming through the window, the curtains having been opened as if by some unseen spirit.

(It was probably Lenore.)

(She’s the only one who would venture into his room while he was still asleep.)

 

It’s a strange morning, and there are three reasons for it.

 

One.

It’s late. The sun is high in the sky. He’s … slept in.

He never sleeps in.

There’s usually a certain someone (a certain wedding dress wearing, fashion loving, needs less sleep than him someone) bustling around his room, talking to herself, opening his curtains, and generally not letting herself be ignored.

(Like anyone could ignore her.)

 

Two.

He’s alone. He can’t remember the last time he woke up in an empty bedroom.

(He can. It was in the early days of his ghost-hood. Before him and her and this. He doesn’t miss those days very much.)

As in point one, there’s usually a certain someone (a very special certain someone) making herself known, long before this point in the morning.

 

Three.

This wasn’t an ordinary day.

In the grand scheme of the universe, of the world, of the country it was; September 21 was no different from September 20 or September 22 or March 21.

But today was his _birthday_.

 

And that made the disappearance of a certain party-planning-loving ghost lady a little bit more terrifying.

 

He hasn’t mentioned it to her (he thinks) and there’s no other way she could have found out (he hopes) but it’s nerve-wracking, none the less.

It’s not that he hates his birthday; far from it – as a child he loved the day – and nothing traumatic ever happened to distance him from the day. He just … doesn’t like the fuss.

* * *

Breakfast had never been an important part of HG’s day. He ate it, sure – but he ate it so he wouldn’t be interrupted during his morning inventing session by a constant need to eat.

His usual morning meal was simple – toast with jam, a glass of juice as well, possibly a bowl of porridge (or _oatmeal_ as the Americans called it) if it was a particularly cold day – quick and easy and ready to go for a day of strenuous brain exercising (as Lenore once put it).

 

Any hope he may have retained of Lenore not knowing, or otherwise forgetting, about his birthday was shattered as he wandered down the hallway towards the kitchen – a very … specific set of smells emanating from the small room.

He walks through the door at the exact moment she finishes plating her creation, “Perfect timing as always,” she remarks, with a smile, but she doesn’t say anything beyond that, and he isn’t going to push it – simply nodding in agreement.

 

The plate is nearly overflowing – bacon and sausage and egg and tomatoes and mushrooms and baked beans and buttered toast and what he thinks is an attempt at black pudding. It’s a full English breakfast.

She’s cooked him a (very large, overly large, he doesn’t know how he’s going to eat it all and he doesn’t want to insult her by not finishing it large) English breakfast.

The meal is completed by the large cup (read: bucket) of tea that she places in front of him – prepared just the way he likes it. He takes a sip and it’s still warm. It makes a nice change (usually by the time he remembers he’s made himself tea, it’s long since gone cold. He still drinks it though.)

 

There’s silence for a moment, while HG eats, and Lenore pretends she’s not stealing food from his food, and he pretends that it bothers him. And she’s obviously not going to bring it up, and – of the two of them – they both know who breaks first every single time.

 

So it’s no surprise when HG asks, “How did you know it was my birthday?”

“Last time we visited the future there was this wonderful little book called The Biography of HG Wells. Some great little facts just waiting to be discovered within.” She didn’t even have to think about it, the answer already on the tip of her tongue. “Also you told me, remember.” She added at the end.

“No, I didn’t.” He’s pretty sure he would remember that.

“Yeah. You did. Just after you … came back.”

“But that was almost seven months ago.” He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He didn’t succeed.

“What? Did you think I’d forget? I’m hurt, HG. Incredibly hurt.” She turned away for a moment, rummaging through a cupboard he couldn’t quite see into. When she turned back, she had a small paper bag in her hand – having obviously been hidden within the cupboard. “Here,” she offered.

When he didn’t move to take it, she placed it down in front of him. “It’s a present. It’s not going to hurt you.”

 

Opening the bag carefully, he can’t quite hide his shock at what’s inside. “… Thank you?” he offered, unsure of the correct response, and still unsure of what this creation was.

What it was – was a short metal cylinder with a collection of decorative cut outs around the side. There was a hole in the top, and inside there was a small indent, within which sat a single lone tea light.

It wasn’t exactly something he’d seen before.

 

“It a tea warmer,” she explained, retrieving a match from … somewhere, and lighting the candle, before placing his mug of tea atop it. “It should stop you from drinking cold tea, all the time.”

Looking at it again, it looked rather clever this time, and he had no qualms about telling her so.

“It’s really not,” she insisted, “Fire plus metal equals hot metal, which equals hot tea, which equals no sad HG.” She thought for a moment, “Well, no sad HG about his cold tea, anyway.” She amended.

 

She handed him another small bag, this one simply filled with tea lights – at least a hundred, probably more. Enough to last him (and his hot tea) a long time.

“I originally got you these scented tea lights. They were all different colours and smelled like flowers. But Annabel said they might mess with the tea, so I kept those and you got the boring ones.” She explained, and now he thought about it, there had been scented tea light popping up in her room at the strangest of moments. He’d just put it down as a ‘Lenore Thing’ and hadn’t thought much more about it.

 

Turns out the – speak their name and summon them – isn’t just a demon thing. It’s an Annabel thing as well, for no sooner did Lenore mention her best friend by name, then did said best friend walk through the doors of the kitchen, Edgar following along just half a step behind.

“Happy Birthday HG,” she greeted him with her ever-present smile on her face, a present in her hands. HG couldn’t hide his _look_ at Lenore, and she just shrugged in return.

(Like she was going to keep this from Annabel. Seriously. Have you ever met us HG?)

He opened the present from her quickly – a pen. Jet black, but with bronze engravings that looked very much like gears and wheels and wires. It was very beautiful and very … him, and his thanks were sincere.

Edgar (being a completely normal human with nothing wrong with him at all) was Edgar. Offering up his own present, he seemingly forgot how words and birthday greetings went – despite having literally just heard Annabel speak – and somehow ended up telling HG to ‘have a good birth’. Like – what?

But the leather bound notebook was wonderful, and he’d been needing a new one, and this one had a lot of clean and blank pages just waiting for his genius to spill onto. (Lenore’s words, not his.) So he thanked Edgar, and pretended not to notice his awkwardness.

 

The pair left shortly after, Annabel leading Edgar out of the room, so that the other two can continue their breakfast in peace.

Edgar had obviously not been informed of that part of the plan, if the vague complaints of ‘but breakfast, Annabel. _Breakfast_ ’ that drifted back to the kitchen were to be believed.

 

It’s only a few moments later that Lenore announces, “We should leave,” as HG finishes the last of his breakfast, standing up and collecting HG’s new treasures, prompting him to do the same. “You know how Edgar gets without his morning gloom-ios.”

* * *

It was Annabel’s birthday recently, too.

Her first since her death, or her first in her new life as a ghost, whichever way you want to view it.

 

And it turns out that Edgar has really terrible impulse control when it comes to Annabel. Not like _that_ was a surprise.

(Lenore managed to reign in the craziest of his ideas. Like – what is she going to do with a horse Edgar? She’s a ghost. We terrify animals. And do you really need me to list all the ways buying her a personal grand piano is terrible idea. You do? Okay one – Annabel doesn’t play piano. Two - )

(It went on like that for many days.)

(The result was still extremely extravagant. But fortunately, less garish.)

 

(The travelling circus he hired to perform at her party would probably disagree with that. There were a lot of people at that party. Most of them Annabel’s friends. Most of them under the impression that Annabel was dead – considering the funeral and everything. There were a lot of fun explanations to be had that night.)

 

HG had disappeared after twenty-five minutes and didn’t reappear until the next day. Lenore has a feeling that if all that attention was directed at him, he wouldn’t last ten minutes and wouldn’t reappear for at least a week afterword’s.

* * *

So they spend the day in the attic.

It pretty much identical to any other day that’s come and gone recently.

Just the way they like it.

 

But his tea isn’t lukewarm when he remembers to drink it; and he isn’t cramming his words into half the space they need, because he’s no longer running out of space; and that pen … is literally just a fancy looking pen, but he seems to like it, so it’s a good present as well.

 

The sunlight streamed through the single window, and the dust lit up, and his face lit up – both with the light and with his smile – as he pours every ounce of his concentration into his most recent idea (there’s lots of wires and it looks fancy, and he’s explained the idea like four time, but she still has no idea what it is).

And Lenore wishes she could draw, because this is a masterpiece – he is a masterpiece.

But she can’t – so the image lives on, only inside her head.

(She’s glad in a way.)

(She doesn’t like to share.)

(She likes him being all hers.)

 

And she totally hasn’t planned a surprise party for later in the evening (that he’s still blissfully unaware about.)

She did promise, after all.

It’s far more of a … surprise (and tasteful) get-together, of certain old and new friends that don’t visit nearly often enough (and already know about the whole ‘ghost thing’), that may or may not include food and music and cake and the blowing out of candles on said cake and making a wish while specific singing occurs.

 

(He’ll absolutely have fun.)

(Eventually)

(Probably.)

(Maybe.)

(She’ll make him have fun.)

 

But that’s later, and this is now – now with the candles, and the inventions, and the smells, and her books, and the quiet murmuring as he talks to himself – genius that cannot be contained, even if she wanted to. And she does not. Now – with the half smiles, and the glances that could almost form a language of their own, and the full smiles, and the lingering touches that neither is particularly anxious to end.

 

Now is pretty good.


End file.
